


Eternity

by Riftwalker



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riftwalker/pseuds/Riftwalker
Summary: Elune has chosen her to lead the kaldorei - but is she truly fit to lead? While Malfurion Stormrage sleeps, Tyrande Whisperwind must come into her own.





	Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the thousands of years between the War of the Ancients and the beginnings of the Third War on Kalimdor.

“Ishnu’alah, my love.”

A greeting should never feel so somber, Tyrande reflected. Not reunions such as these. One finger gently traced the contours of her lover’s face, silent and still. She’d lost count of the years he’d been sleeping, but a number wasn’t necessary. No matter how few or great the number, it seemed like an eternity to her. Here, in the quiet and the dark of the Barrow Dens, it was as if she could hear the minutes ticking away, crumbling into the dirt beneath her feet.

When notified of High Priestess Dejahna’s death, she’d been grief-stricken, horrified. But the grief was overwritten by stark surprise when they told her that _she_ was the named successor, _she_ was the one the High Priestess deemed worthy of leading the kaldorei in the midst of the war. That terrible, terrible war that split the kaldorei down the middle just as easily as the earth had split beneath them and Kalimdor had splintered into the ocean depths.

Indeed, despite the apparent victory, it _had_ split them irrevocably, sending both Dath’remar and those that followed him across the sea. At the time she’d been grateful for Malfurion’s awakening -- both for his assistance in the matter, and to simply hear the sound of his voice. She was grateful that he’d spared the lives of those involved with the incident. Yet after all was said and done, they shared another tearful goodbye as he returned to the Emerald Dream. That second goodbye was far more painful than the first, for now, Tyrande knew what to expect.

At the time that Alexstrasza and the other Aspects who had lost so much during the war gave her people Nordrassil, she was grateful. When Nozdormu tied their lives to the tree, granting the kaldorei immortality, she was humbled. When Ysera spoke of the need for the kaldorei’s assistance in the Emerald Dream, she was amazed. After all, it was rare that anyone saw a dragon, much less an Aspect. And her people were being charged to help the Aspect, to help the green flight heal the very _world_? Astonishing.

It wasn’t until later, much later, that Malfurion gently explained to her what, precisely, it all meant. That he would eventually be drawn to slumber, to walk the fields of the Emerald Dream himself, along with the other druids trained under his watchful, kind eyes.

It meant that she would be alone. The first goodbye was tinged with sorrow, but also the understanding that one day it would end and he would return. The second goodbye … it was clear that the day of his return wouldn’t be any time soon.

“They’ve finished the new temple, love. It stands as glorious and bright as Elune herself. You’ll have to see it, when you wake. I know, there was no need for it -- but our people needed something to pour their hearts into, it seemed.” Tyrande paused, staring at her hands, her fingers twisting together as she stood lost in thought.

Here, in the darkness and the quiet of the Barrow Dens, she could at least speak to him, even if he never replied. Here, all that had transpired in the thousands -- had it been thousands? Dath’Remar’s exile was fixed at some point in the distant past, yet to her mind, the memory of the incident was still as clear as day. Since then, she’d led the kaldorei on her own, but here -- here in the Barrow Dens, she could speak to him. Here, she could tell her secrets, her worries, and her fears. Here, she could simply take comfort in his presence. It was enough. Tyrande watched him breathe for a moment before speaking again.

“Shandris...” Tyrande frowned faintly. “ … Shandris is doing well. Coping.” She settled next to him, kicking the long, formal train of her gown aside as she sat and brushing a lock of azure hair behind an ear.

“Jarod has left.” The words were a finality of that particular situation. Though Tyrande didn’t know what had happened between Shadowsong and Shandris, she knew there had been affection at one point.

“Nobody knows where he went -- nobody saw him leave,” she continued, reflecting on the news she’d received only days before. He’d left, they told her. Nobody knew exactly when he’d taken his leave; Jarod Shadowsong had always been quiet, reserved. The war had taken its toll on him just as it had everyone else, and no one thought to question his continued silence until recently. When they investigated his home, it was clear that it had been empty for some time. The news was delivered to the High Priestess soon after, and she wasn’t surprised by it at all. Sad, perhaps, but hardly surprised.

Shandris had taken the news as well as expected. Silent and strong, proudly clad in the armor of a Sentinel, polearm held ever close, the young woman stood at Tyrande’s side as the message was delivered. Silent and strong, even as the courier left and Tyrande made a gentle attempt to comfort her -- a comfort that was quickly rebuked. The High Priestess did not press the matter, instead offering Shandris a place with another hunting party. Shandris gratefully accepted, and left to go hunt and expel whatever grief she experienced into the forests and the wild. It was her way.

“I … should have expected it. I don’t think Jarod ever wanted to be a leader.” She lowered her eyes. The young man was nearly forced to take the position, she recalled faintly. Though he protested, he took it out of duty to his people, and he performed to the best of his ability. Tyrande spoke with him every now and again, in the quiet hours between decisions, hours of confusion, hours when she needed advice. It was with regret that she realized she, herself, might have played some small role in pushing him away.

But he had the freedom to leave whenever he wished, and she could not find fault with him for doing so, regardless of her feelings on the matter. He had the choice to simply _go_, and escape his grief.

“I think sometimes that I wish …”

Her voice trailed off, the thought unsettling her. Instead she sat, watching the sleeping figure. He didn’t move, barely breathed, a faint hint of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, his brows drawn together as though he were the recipient of a slightly confusing joke. Tyrande bit her lip, sliding her hand into his and simply feeling the warmth of his palm.

“… what do you dream, beloved? Do you dream of me?”

Silence answered her whisper, and she leaned in to carefully touch her lips to his, holding back tears. Rising to her feet, the High Priestess of Elune took a breath and composed herself, then began the long journey to the surface where her Sentinels waited for her.

In the dark, Malfurion slumbered on.

\---

Nordrassil was simply breathtaking, its branches straining and reaching as if to catch the stars and hold them close. It had grown even larger over the centuries since its creation, and a soothing air of calm seemed to almost radiate from the gracefully gnarled trunk. But Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune, was scarcely paying attention to it. Instead, her gaze was directed at the moon above, its cool glimmer barely visible through the vast canopy of the tree.

High Priestess, and leader of the kaldorei -- the title was not one she’d asked for. They treated her differently now. Oh, her people had always been kind, respectful to her even when she was a simple novice in training. But now there was an air of far greater respect. An air of awe, and an unspoken expectation, almost as if the kaldorei as a collective whole were holding their breath, waiting for her to do something, speak, or take an action at any given moment.

_Mother Moon_, Tyrande prayed, staring intently at the sky. _What are they waiting for?_

The moon didn’t answer, its light waning amidst the branches above.

As she approached the newly completed temple, Tyrande paused for a moment to marvel at the elegant beauty of the building. It was small, yet lovely -- cool white marble pillars swept gracefully up the sides of the structure, almost radiating with the moon’s light, however dim it might be. There wasn’t a need for a new temple; they had simply come to her with plans in hand. And although she didn’t see the need, the entreating looks of the designers, the barely-concealed desire to please were enough to sway her mind.

And they had eagerly and completely outdone themselves, each wall intricately interlocked with the next to create a seamless piece of architecture, a shining testament to Elune’s grace.

Those same kaldorei still walked the halls of the building, putting in the final touches. As she walked the path to the main building, several stopped to nod, bow, or otherwise pay their respects to the High Priestess. She smiled in return, offering quiet greetings, blessings, and whispered thanks to each, then stepped into the main hall. It was thankfully empty, the flowers and plants already put into place, the cool sound of running water a grateful reprieve from the awed looks and stares.

She stared absently at the statue in the center of the hall. A monument to the first priestess of Elune, the graceful kaldorei figure held her hands to the sky, as naturally as if she’d been a living, breathing creature. _And what I wouldn’t give for you to be here now_, Tyrande thought, absently fingering one ornate bracelet encircling her wrist. She dropped her eyes, suddenly ashamed. After all, Elune had chosen her over any other, regardless of whether Tyrande felt she was worthy of the position.

More often than not, lately, she wondered why.

“High Priestess.” Tyrande stiffened, cringing inwardly. The voice came from the last person she wished to speak to at the moment. But the druid neither noticed nor cared, his footsteps echoing as he crossed the marble floor. 

“Fandral Staghelm,” she replied by way of greeting, turning and offering a kind smile, one that was quickly devoured by the scowl of the druid. A promising student of Malfurion’s, Staghelm had made quite the name for himself, albeit one that was sometimes unflattering. His proficiency with the druidic arts was admittedly strong, and though he lacked the antlers marked Malfurion’s brow, he still showed promise as a formidable druid. At the thought of Malfurion, Tyrande’s smile faded just a little.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Fandral continued, ignoring her greeting.

“And so you have,” Tyrande replied smoothly. The traditional garb of the druids was meant to blend with nature, the fabric, construction and careful detailing to suggest leaves, branches, and earth. But Staghelm’s imposing figure, towering over her at nearly eight feet in height, did anything but blend. “How is Valstann?” She asked quickly, hoping to improve his mood.

It worked -- the druid’s gaze softening imperceptibly. “He is well.” Fandral’s voice deepened, his expression distant as his eyes moved to the statue behind them. “He looks more like his mother every day.”

Tyrande lowered her eyes, remembering Fandral’s wife. Though the priestesses had worked quickly to mend the wounds from the painful labor of her first and only child, they could not save her. The last of her life was instead granted to her son. The High Priestess wondered at the time if Fandral could ever recover from the loss -- the stark grief in his eyes during her funeral was overpowering. But he’d taken to raising his son as quickly as he’d fallen into grief, guiding the boy into the strong, capable adult he was today.

“Fandral, I’m so-“

“-I am not here for idle conversation, High Priestess.” Fandral pinned her under his gaze once more, his voice returning to its usual hard edge. While it was certain that Staghelm was an accomplished druid, it was also just as certain that he cared little for the priesthood. Given their failure to save his beloved wife, Tyrande could hardly blame his distrust. “We druids have sensed a disturbance, far to the south. Farther than your Sentinels have dared tread.” Tyrande ignored the veiled insult, feeling a faint pang of apprehension at his words.

“Where?”

“Silithus.”

\---

“I sent him.”

Silence answered her. She sat, still and quiet, hands in her lap. Tyrande didn’t look at the sleeping figure, couldn’t look, not now. The tears she’d held in check over the many long, agonizing months that the kaldorei had spent embroiled in war freed themselves from her softly glowing eyes and trailed down her cheeks uninhibited.

“I sent him, beloved. I sent them both to the deserts. He was capable, strong -- beloved, you would be proud with how far he has progressed over the years. I thought he was best suited for the task, and so did he. Fandral assured me he knew what to do -- he told me they would return victorious. And they did. He was right.” Her voice broke. “But he …”

A cool breeze trailed through the room. Tyrande shivered, taking a breath, then two, before continuing. “ …He lost him, beloved. His son. The others, they told me … they told me what happened. Fandral saw it all. Valstann … beloved, that child was all Fandral had _left_.”

Her gaze fixed to the wall, knuckles white as she clenched her skirts. “And I sent them both. I sent Valstann to his death, and I sent Fandral to his grief. We have our victory, beloved -- but at what cost? We have our victory, but Fandral … Fandral is _broken_, Malfurion. He blames the dragons … and he blames _me_.”

She attended the funeral in Astranaar, blessed Valstann’s spirit safely to the arms of Elune. Fandral’s haunted eyes watched her as the simple ceremony progressed, white-hot with barely-contained fury. And the accusatory gaze of Valstann’s wife watched her as well, her belly swollen with the child that would never know its father. After, she’d left with the others, giving Fandral and his daughter-in-law a chance to say their goodbyes in private. The soft light of the moon broke through the trees as she walked, attempting to clear her head. She didn’t expect Fandral to follow her.

Nor did she expect the blast of his fury, the gale force of grief extended solely to her. His words were bitter, harsh, and unkind, laden with the pain of loss and the guilt of regret. It was her fault, he raged, her fault for not knowing the extent of the problem to the south, her fault for not sending more troops. Her fault for being a poor excuse for a leader. Her fault for not keeping closer watch on her people -- or did she care about her people at all? The litany of accusations haunted her as she traveled the long journey home.

“And perhaps it was my fault,” she whispered softly. “ Perhaps I am not …beloved … it has been hundreds, thousands of years. I need you.”

She turned to him then, curling up against him, letting the tears fall and listening to the sound of his heart, cheek pressed to his chest. The minutes ticked by with no answer from the sleeping druid, and at last Tyrande pulled away, her hand slipping into his as she stared at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep, as always. But his lips were contorted into a frown of faint disapproval.

The High Priestess closed her eyes and rose to her feet. She took a breath and wiped the tears away, setting her shoulders and making the long trip back to the surface.

In the dark, Malfurion slumbered on.

\---

“He’s an arrogant, over-stuffed, pompous-“ the litany was interrupted as Shandris stuffed her mouth with another morsel of venison and chewed. The girl had just returned from a scouting trip in Ashenvale. The months of war had not darkened Shandris’ spirits as they had Tyrande’s -- either that, or just as with Jarod’s departure, the girl had taken all grief and set it loose upon the wilds, in the hunt.

Tyrande hadn’t intended to tell Shandris of the events in Astranaar, but the tale slipped free the moment the girl stepped into her chambers. Though Tyrande was, by all appearances, just fine as far as the rest of the priesthood was concerned, Shandris knew the moment she laid eyes on the High Priestess that something wasn’t right. It only took one quick question for the entire story to pour out.

“Shandris, he just lost his son,” Tyrande countered. “He’s grieving.”

Shandris made a rude noise, swallowing the bite of jerky. “Grieving? Hardly. He wants a scapegoat. Someone to blame for a blameless act. It wasn’t your fault Valstann died; he was doing his duty. Lady-“

“-Tyrande,” the High Priestess corrected firmly.

Shandris stopped chewing, placing the uneaten food back on the delicate tray and affixing Tyrande with a curious look. “Why do you do that?”

The question took Tyrande completely by surprise. “Do what?”

“Make me call you Tyrande. You always have, ever since … ever since they made you High Priestess.” She settled back in her chair, stripping off a leather gauntlet and casually inspecting it for damage while watching Tyrande out of the corner of her eye.

“Because I’m still Tyrande. Even after they gave me the title, I’m still Tyrande, child. We all wake and sleep in Mother Moon’s embrace. I am no more than any other; we are all equal in Elune’s eyes. You know this. You know me.” Tyrande faltered, uncertain where this was leading. Shandris’ curious look never wavered, though her eyes narrowed.

“Do I? The Tyrande _I_ knew was a fighter. The Tyrande _I_ knew was brave, and kind, and far from cruel, or thoughtless. The Tyrande _I_ knew would never have blamed herself for the deaths of those that fought valiantly for the kaldorei-“

Tyrande took a breath, rising to her feet. “-I did not expect to be assaulted upon your return, Shandris-“

“The Tyrande I knew was a _leader_,” Shandris continued stubbornly. “The Tyrande I knew would not let the words of a grieving man affect her so. She would continue on, patient and kind and yes, forgiving, but she would not _bend_, Lady. She would not break.”

Tyrande stiffened, turning away. Shandris’ gaze hardened as she rose to her feet. “Lady, I have watched you, I have watched every move, and every decision you’ve made. For thousands of years, I’ve watched -- and so have the rest of the kaldorei. Never have you faltered, never have you stumbled, _never_ have you questioned yourself, until now. I do not pretend to understand why this came about, but you are our leader, Lady-“

“What kind of leader am I?” Tyrande snapped. Shandris’ eyes widened in surprise at the sharp and unexpected reply. “Who decided that I was worthy? They threw me into this, Shandris, they gave me this title and duty in the middle of a war and I had no _choice_!”

“…and if you were given the choice now, what would you choose?” Shandris asked quietly.

“I don’t know.”

\---

The moon was full, gentle shafts of light faintly pouring through Nordrassil’s branches. Tyrande stood on the upper balcony of the temple, watching without really seeing. Shandris had left after that, without another word, but her eyes were just as accusing as Valstann’s wife had been. And those eyes had haunted Tyrande in the months to follow. She’d continued with her duties, sending scouts to watch the forests, giving permission for new settlements, blessing births, sending the dead to Elune’s arms.

But she was listless, tired.

Shandris had spoken truly. The leader she knew, the Tyrande she knew was not here. And every trait, every harsh word spoken only reinforced that which the High Priestess had been considering since Jarod’s departure. Though she tried to conceal it, people were beginning to notice -- she could hear the hushed whispers of the novices as they gossiped. News of Valstann’s wife was delivered -- she’d given birth to a baby girl. Tyrande prayed that Fandral’s spirit would lift at the news. But the final question of Shandris weighed heavily on her mind, far more than she cared for.

_If you were given the choice, what would you choose?_

_Mother Moon_, Tyrande prayed, her eyes locked on the moon between Nordrassil’s branches. _Tell me. Tell me that I deserve this. Tell me what I must do -- tell me how to lead. Help me understand. You made this choice. You chose me. Was it the right one? Was I the right choice?_

The branches shifted in the breeze, the balcony growing dark as the moon disappeared between the leaves.

\---

“Mother Moon doesn’t speak to me.” Tyrande whispered, her face drawn with worry and shame. It was an admission she’d told no one.

Tyrande sat next to the sleeping druid, pale and worried. The trip to the Barrow Dens was not scheduled, but none of her Sentinels dared protest. She could feel it though, the weight of their gaze, suspicious and questioning even as she straightened herself and began the long journey below.

“Beloved, I ask, and I ask. She won’t reply. It’s…it’s as if the light is gone. I don’t know what to do.”

Silence answered her, and she gripped the druid’s hand, her knuckles white. “Elune has not answered a single prayer since I spoke to Shandris, beloved. I have failed her, and now she is silent. How can I be the High Priestess if Elune no longer answers my call?” Tyrande’s voice trembled on the verge of panic. “What do I _do_?”

The silence was punctuated by a snort. Tyrande slowly lifted her eyes to stare at his face, taken aback. His lips were drawn into a smile -- not a smile at her, a smile at whatever it was he was seeing there, in the Dream. Her heart sank as she realized with utter finality that his attentions were elsewhere. Always elsewhere, no matter how many times she visited, no matter how patiently she waited. A lump rose in her throat, tears to her eyes, her hand lifting --

The resounding sound of the slap echoed in the empty den. 

“How _dare_ you,” Tyrande snapped, her voice ragged, sharp. “How dare you laugh? How dare you lay there and sleep, leave me with everything? No, you’ve left it all behind, slipping away as quietly as Jarod! I have waited for you! Thousands of years because of that damned tree that pulled you away! Immortality, ours whether we wish it or not!”

She stood; fists clenched in fury. “They gave us such a gift, didn’t they? Gifted us with a life to live forever, then tore you from me before we’d even begun to be together! They _damned_ us, Malfurion, they damned me and they damned you! Sleep then, dream your dreams! Laugh if you like! But I will not remain to be mocked!”

In the dark, Malfurion slumbered on.

\---

It was the curious rumors that brought Shandris back to Tyrande’s chambers. Acrid gossip of Fandral Staghelm’s bid for leadership, and the odd silence of the High Priestess. As Tyrande had told her time and time again, Shandris knew her -- and she knew this was not at all like the woman she’d admired for centuries. Her footsteps echoed in the nigh-empty hall, the one novice currently attending the High Priestess staring at the Sentinel in frank astonishment before scuttling out.

A quiet figure curled against the windowsill of the upper balcony, bedecked in the shining robes of a High Priestess, jeweled cuffs adorning slender wrists; a sparkling diadem nestled on her brow. But for all her splendid finery, the woman on the windowsill looked less like a leader and more like a caged bird, desperate to be free.

“Tyrande.”

The woman didn’t bother turning her head. “Go away.”

“Tyrande … what has happened? They speak of Fandral -- they say he is trying to take leadership from you …” Shandris trailed off in shock as Tyrande slipped from the windowsill and made her way across the marble floor. Dark circle ringed her eyes, her frame gaunt.

“Let him have it. Elune no longer speaks to me.”

Shandris straighted in surprise. “What? Lady …”

“There is no Lady, no High Priestess,” Tyrande shook her head, taking the diadem from her brow and staring at it dully. “There is only Tyrande, now.”

“I don’t understand. Lady, you are the light of Elune, she shines through you. What have you done, that she would bid you farewell?”

Listless eyes lifted to meet the Sentinel’s desperate gaze. “I asked for her guidance, Shandris. I asked why she chose me, why I was worthy. Her answer was silence. The Mother Moon knows now. She knows her choice was wrong.”

Shandris stiffened, her eyes narrowing, her voice sharp. “Stop it. You keep saying that, and it isn’t t-”

But the High Priestess’ voice continued to drone on. “-I do not deserve to lead. Elune made the wrong choice. It just took her time to realize-”

“Perhaps she didn’t answer you on _purpose_!” Shandris burst out, her face dark with anger. White knuckles gripped the polearm at the Sentinel’s side. Tyrande started out of her reverie, staring at her, pale and taken aback at the sudden outburst.

“You overstep your bounds, chil-”

“I am not a child anymore! Yet you think of me as I am, always. Is that who I am to you, Tyrande? Is that what I will always be? The orphan that clung to you in the midst of a war? _I grew up_, Tyrande. It’s been thousands of years, I changed, I grew. Look at me!” She hefted the polearm, slamming it into the ground with a violence that Tyrande had never seen, never noticed before. Tears threatened the High Priestess but she held them at bay, shaking her head in confusion.

“I am a warrior, fierce and strong. I fight for the forests, I fight for our people, and I fight for _you_. I believe in you, Lady. I always have, and I do not need the Mother Moon to tell me why I do. Why do _you_?”

Tyrande’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing, the tears forgotten in a sudden rush of white-hot anger. “I have lived for centuries, child, and I will not have you speak to me as though I know nothing-”

“But you _don’t_ know,” Shandris replied, her voice sad, plaintive. “Look at what Elune is telling you, Priestess. If she tells you nothing, then perhaps it is because _that_ is the answer.”

The High Priestess simply turned away, unwilling to even look at Shandris any further. But her voice, quiet and tinged with sorrow, continued to reach Tyrande’s ears willing or no.

“If you cannot bear the weight of your own life, Tyrande, how do you expect to bear the weight of the lives of those you lead?” Shandris turned, her footsteps signaling her departure, and the room was quiet once more.

In the quiet, Tyrande let the tears fall.

\---

The temple was pitch-black, as if all light had been sucked from it. Tyrande stood in the main hall, perplexed. Her gown was torn; the long hem shredded and caked with dirt. In the darkness, she could barely discern the outline of a figure standing tall and silent on the other side of the hall. Outside, there were the sounds of wild animals, faint growls and snarls, claws scrabbling on the marble. Her bare feet padded across the cool marble as she stepped hesitantly towards the figure, trembling as her eyes adjusted to the dark and drank the figure in, recognizing the staid stance.

“Malfurion.” She whispered, the words a soft prayer. The figure turned in her direction and she ran the last few steps, throwing her arms around him in a tearful embrace. “Malfurion! I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry-” His arms wrapped around her, safe and warm.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally caught sight of his face. Smooth and blank, the eyes she longed to see open and sparkling at her were simply absent, the lips she wished to see smile utterly gone, purple skin stretched over skull in an obscene mockery of her lover’s face. She uttered a little cry, pushing the figure away. It crumbled into dust as she stared in shock.

Outside, the growls grew louder, more insistent. She staggered under the shock of recognition -- the howls, gibbering mad shrieks of the Burning Legion. How had they come here? Where were her Sentinels? The answer came abruptly, the cackling of the demons reaching a fever pitch as the screams began. They had come for the kaldorei, she realized in dawning horror. They had returned for the souls of her people.

_Goddess,_ she prayed desperately. _Help us in our darkest hour -- help your children! I have fallen from your light, but they have not -- I cannot let them fall! I cannot lose them too! _

Silence answered her. She stared, transfixed, at the statue of Haidene. The stone figure was cracked, weathered; yet her arms still stretched a silent, impassioned plea to the sky. Tyrande found her arms slowly raising in response, her cries for help desperate, louder in her ears than even the screams of terror just outside. _Mother, do not let your people die! I have failed you! Do not punish the kaldorei for my mistake! _In the temple, all was still, and dark. Her shoulders sagged in response.

Something clinked at her feet, glittered in what dim light the temple offered. Cautiously, Tyrande reached down and grasped in the dark, coming up with the smooth hilt of a glaive. A warrior’s weapon. A Sentinel’s weapon. Outside, the demons waited, their laughter punctuated with the frightened cries of her people, the call of Shandris ringing out over them all, shouting orders, screaming in agony. And something within Tyrande snapped into place.

** _I_ ** _ will not let your people die._

Tyrande’s gaze lifted to the door, the soft glow of her eyes narrowing to glinting stars. Mechanically she stood, striding out the darkened door and into the mass of awaiting demons, the blade cutting through the first three as though they were nothing. She railed again and again against the never-ending tide with the ferocity of a mother bear defending her cubs, clearing a swath through the gibbering masses.

Blood spattered across her torn gown -- no, armor now, she was wearing armor and there was a quiver at her back. Her face set in a grim mask, she lifted the bow, notching an arrow and pulling the string tight before letting it fly.

The arrow set free, splitting into countless hundreds, raining upon the encroaching armies and melting them away. Cries of horror turned to cries of triumph as the battered kaldorei forces rose as one and fought back, tearing through the tides of the Legion with renewed ferocity, and above them all stood Tyrande Whisperwind, the moon breaking through the trees to shine with full force upon her, welcoming her back, at last.

She sat upright, a tangled mess of sheets falling to the elegant bed and startling a novice filling the water pitcher on her dresser. Tyrande didn’t wait for the girl to speak.

“Find Shandris Feathermoon, and tell her that her Lady needs her.”

Soft moonlight filtered into the room through Nordrassil’s branches, and the High Priestess lifted her face to greet it with a gentle smile as the novice hurriedly exited.

\---

“A special group?” Shandris lifted an eyebrow, taking the proffered bit of pastry and biting into it with relish. There was no mention of the prior conversation they’d shared; there was no need for it. Shandris did not wish to think about it, nor, apparently, did Tyrande.

“For you.” She was dressed now; her chambers empty save for the two of them. She’d sent the others away after finding breakfast, waited patiently for Shandris’ arrival. The girl -- woman, Tyrande reminded herself firmly -- hadn’t been too far away. In fact, from the speed with which she’d arrived, Tyrande almost thought that she’d been sleeping just outside the door. A faint smile curved her lips.

Shandris watched her curiously, the sudden transformation perplexing her more than ever. The drawn, pitiful woman she spoken so harshly to was gone, replaced with … Shandris wasn’t certain, but a faint glimmer of hope was rising within her. “For me?”

“For you to lead,” the High Priestess clarified, only to perplex the Sentinel even further.

“My own group of Sentinels? Why … what would you have us do, Lady?”

“Patrol duties. And keep your eyes and ears open. For me.” Tyrande glanced out the window, her brow furrowed. “I want to know what these rumors are, where they started. I want to make sure they don’t start again. I want -- no, I _need_ your help with this, Shandris. If you would.”

Shandris stared at her, grinning like a fool as the High Priestess waited for an answer. Indeed, this was not the pitiful woman she’d spoken to before. This was Tyrande. And Shandris was utterly delighted to see her again.

“Well?”

“Of course I will!” Shandris laughed, watching as the High Priestess stood and made her way to a wardrobe nestled against the wall.

“There is something else,” Tyrande said. The wardrobe door creaked as she drew it open, protesting years of disuse. Years ago, she’d filled it and quietly closed the door, concentrating instead on the duties of the priesthood, of politics, of advice and comfort.

“Anything, Lady.”

The High Priestess pulled from the wardrobe a bow, quiver, and armor, a faint layer of dust dulling the metal. She brushed the dust away, pleased to see that the armor had not lost its shine; despite the years it had been locked away. “I want to go with you.”

Shandris faltered, her gaze falling to the pastry. “I see.”

A warm, gentle hand on her shoulder startled her. “It has been too long since I’ve fought back, Shandris Feathermoon,” Tyrande said quietly. “Too long since spent in temples, absent from the hunt. If I am to properly defend my people, my memory needs refreshing. Therefore, I should seek out the best qualified to refresh it, should I not?” Shandris’ eyes lit up in silent reply.

\---

Fandral Staghelm paced the main hall impatiently. Though he’d answered the High Priestess’ summons immediately after reading the missive, he had been kept waiting for hours, now. The marble halls, the statue, the temple itself was no more than a mockery, a monument to a woman who was no longer fit to lead. Valstann … Fandral bowed his head, gritting his teeth as the scene flashed unbidden before his eyes. The Qiraji general, Valstann held in one giant claw. The moment when his son turned his head to speak to the general, and the moment after, when his son spoke no more.

The war raged on for months after, and out of desperation, he was forced to seek aid from the bronze dragonflight. The war was won with their help -- but too many lives were lost in the process. Precious lives. His son’s life. _Valstann_ …

“Fandral Staghelm,” the woman’s voice cut through the room like glass.

It was obvious to him, far too obvious that Tyrande Whisperwind had no business leading the kaldorei. And it was growing ever more obvious to the many he had spoken to as well. Too many had died while she cried in her quarters, too many had perished fighting for a leader plagued with doubt and uncertainty. Fandral steeled himself to make his case -- but his thoughts were cut short as Tyrande stepped into the light.

“I have heard word that you wish to lead the kaldorei,” she stated simply, her voice steel and cold. Fandral simply stared in shock. No longer dressed in finery, the High Priestess stood tall, frostsaber at her side, glaive in hand, bedecked in the shining armor of a Sentinel.

“This is unfortunate, as the kaldorei already have a leader.” She continued, not waiting for an answer. “Your jurisdiction runs as far as the druids, Fandral -- and you still report to Malfurion, and to Remulos. I will not stand idly by and let you presume more.”

Fandral purpled. “_You_ presume-”

Tyrande didn’t let him finish, the frostsaber cutting him off with a snarl. “I speak as the High Priestess of Elune.” Her eyes swept over him, a hint of sadness, perhaps pity haunting the glowing depths. But her words remained firm.

“Our people have seen the pain of standing divided, as has our world. Do you wish for them to experience it again?” Her steady, unflinching gaze dared him to answer. He didn’t bother, instead turning angrily on his heel and striding out without a word.

A faint smile flickered across Tyrande’s face, tinged with quiet regret. He would recover in time.

\---

“Ishnu’alah, my love.”

Tyrande sat carefully next to his sleeping body, her hands folded in her lap. Two hundred years had passed in the blink of an eye since she last set foot in the Barrow Dens. Two hundred years since she’d railed at him in misdirected anger, two hundred years since she’d fended off Fandral’s attempt to usurp her. Two hundred years of solitude spent dedicated to the kaldorei, Shandris, the Shadowleaves, the hunt. It wasn’t that she didn’t think of him, slumbering here in the Barrow Dens. When everyone else left in the wan light of dawn, when she patrolled the forests alone, her thoughts still turned to him.

The grief was still there, the ache of his absence wound tight around her heart. But it no longer weighted her down in despair. It was a keen reminder of all she had to fight for, the sharpened blade of the glaive, the pointed tip of the arrow, honed into an instrument that would defend, protect. She would not let her people die -- neither would she let her grief drown her in sorrow.

Nothing was said, for there was nothing to say. Her duties called her elsewhere, and she had come to simply spend a moment with him while she still could. Ashenvale called, and she was drawn to answer -- who knew how long she would be gone. The thought drew a bittersweet smile from her face. The tables had turned, it seemed. Oh, she would wait for him, but the wait would be spent on her own path, now. In the forests, in the hunt. Shandris had shown her the way.

Tyrande silently memorized his face, his features still set and unmoving, watched his chest as he slowly breathed. Quiet solidarity, determination, patience, kindness, the preference of thought over action … these were the things that drew her at last to him over Illidan. And she would wait for him, for eternity if need be. For every aspect of him that she loved, she saw when she rose in the morning and looked in the mirror. She felt it, every time she awoke.

She didn’t speak, didn’t apologize, simply watching him breathe and dream, serving his people as well as he could. And when she stood at last, giving his silent form a kiss, she left to do the same, setting her shoulders with quiet determination.

After all, they had an eternity to live.

\---

Centuries later, a lone Sentinel climbed the highest peak in Ashenvale, silently melting through the trees as if they were nothing at all. Atop the peak was the object of her hunt, sitting astride a great frostsaber, taut and silent as a bowstring drawn for a strike. As she crept closer, the High Priestess didn’t bother to turn around, sensing the woman’s approach. “Shandris.”

Shandris strode forward, coming to a halt at Tyrande’s side, her brow creased with concern. “Pardon, Priestess, but you’ve been staring out across Ashenvale for hours.”

Tyrande’s gaze flicked to Shandris and then back to the forests, her lips set in a neutral expression. It had been countless years -- thousands? Shandris no longer noted time as a constant -- immortality had dulled the need to keep track of the days. But the centuries, as many as they’d been, had changed Tyrande. The High Priestess sat astride her frostsaber Ash’alah, and there was no hint of the worry or doubt that had plagued her so long ago. Instead, there was a warrior, set in the routine of patrol, of the hunt. A fierce defender, a sister to all that gladly fought at her side.

The hardened steel that shielded her from harm was a testament to the hardened steel of the High Priestess. After her promotion, Shandris trained Tyrande as requested, though there was hardly a need for it. Old ways never truly died, they had simply faded with time, and it was not long before Tyrande was once again outshining all in the hunt. The renewed ferocity with which she dove into her duty gave Shandris little pause.

After all was said and done, Tyrande threw herself into protecting her people as fiercely as she’d thrown herself into doubt and uncertainty, and she was a far better woman for it. The whispers of the kaldorei had stilled, the question of whether the High Priestess should step down hadn’t come up since. Shandris’ group of highly trained Sentinels made certain of that. The Shadowleaves, as Tyrande had called them, were the High Priestess’ right hand in all matters, her companions, her comrades in arms. And for countless centuries, they’d patrolled the forests of Ashenvale at the High Priestess’ side with a devotion that didn’t need to be explained. It simply was.

But Tyrande’s eyes now glimmered with faint apprehension, Ash’alah stirring restlessly beneath her. “I sense something dark, stirring within the forests, Shandris. It feels as if it’s headed this way.”

Shandris felt herself tense unbidden, memories of the past weeks sharp and fresh in her mind. “The greenskins who killed Cenarius?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps something … more.” Tyrande Whisperwind stared at the forests of Ashenvale, her gaze a silent dare addressing whatever was to come. _Come then, if you wish. Come and try to take the world from me. _

_I’ve been waiting._


End file.
